The Fear in Empty Eyes
by Sapphire363
Summary: He is too dangerous, his magic makes him too strong. He is the one most targeted, he is the one most often dead. They need his magic, he cannot leave the mansion alive. {Inspired by and based on HetaOni, rated T for language}


**First chapter of one of my other stories, that I found lying around, complete, so I decided to post it. I write so much random stuff that I never get around to posting...**

The second he entered the mansion, he knew something was seriously wrong. A wave of weakness passed over him, lasting no more than half a second, coming and going so fast he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could have imagined it.

But, no such luck.

He knew for certain the moment he tried to use his magic. That half second, that tiny stumble, was all the time it took for the mansion to take his one true advantage in the fights to come, to steal his magic from him.

He had gained some of it, in tiny portions, lumps of green energy, somehow solidified and given physical form, but this left him weakened still, without the infinite source that, under normal circumstances, would be at his fingertips. Reliance on finding these lumps of magic left him with a limited source of it, and his true power was locked away and being slowly drained by the energy of the place, leaving him only with the terrifying prospect of the consequences of overuse of magic on a mortal body.

Never before had he had to worry about such consequences. A being such as himself had an infinite supply of magic, due to his intrinsic connection to the land and its energies, and thus, he had no need to worry about overtaxing his magic, or resting between high-level spells.

Now? His connection to his land had been blocked, he was being used as an energy source for the parasitic house to feed on, an infinite pool of magical energy to use, and he did not even have a human mage's advantage of recharging his magic after a time. The house would not allow even that.

He would not, could not, stand by and let himself be used up like so many spare batteries.

Not when, the longer this went on, the more strength the monsters gained, and the more danger his friends, not that they acted like it sometimes, were in.

They had noticed from the very beginning the monsters gaining strength as time went by, and he was the only one who knew the cause of it.

He felt like a traitor, he felt useless, his only advantage stripped away and used against him.

He had gained a lot of strength, with all of the magic lumps they had found.

He could use it.

He could help.

He had already sent Romano and Spain back in time, but he could do _more_.

Though, in so many other time loops he _had_ done more, and paid the price. Because of his magic, he had died more than any other Nation in this cursed place.

But he couldn't let America, one of his little brothers, who were so, so dear to him, get himself killed on a suicide mission because he felt the need to do something he couldn't.

After all, a gentleman arrives before the hero.

With his final spell, he banished the creature forever, and the world plunged into darkness.

At first, he thought that his magic had affected the lighting in the room, after all, magic does, on occasion, mess with technology, he had been through enough mobile phones to learn that (and to learn to leave his phone upstairs whilst practicing magic, but that was beside the point). However, as he listened to those around him, hearing no cries of confusion or fear at the sudden, drowning, blackness, he soon realised that it was not the lighting in the room that had been affected by his magic.

A quick check of his power confirmed his fears a moment later.

He had drained his magic. Not only that, he had overtaxed it, and it had taken its toll.

With no residue of magic to spend, the last remnants of his spell had taken the thing that it deemed to be most important, the most pressing thing in his mind at the time of casting.

Fighting the monster to get Texas back, to get his brother's precious _sight_ back.

Being able to _see_ the look on America's face when he realised that England was still willing, and capable, of defending him, protecting him and keeping him safe without giving his life. _Seeing_ his brother and making sure that he knew that England could still be his hero.

But, of course, the spell took all that.

Now, he was even more useless than before.  
Now, he couldn't lead, scouting ahead, making sure that the path was safe for the others to follow, protecting and guarding. He could only follow, he knew that he would have to be led by the hand, babied and warned of every minor _trip hazard_ , let alone fighting a monster he could no longer see. Only able to stay in the Safe Room, hidden from danger, whilst the others did what he should be doing, searching for a way out of this infernal maze.

The spell would have been kinder to kill him.

He backed away from where he heard America moving as he looked for his glasses. God, he knew they were close, the monster was holding them, for God's sake, but he couldn't even help his brother with that simple a task.

Kinder indeed.

"Oh, my Texas!" England heard America approaching him, barely hearing his next question as the younger Nation picked the glasses up from what had to be _less than three feet away_.

Shit.

Fuck.

He had hoped that he would have been able to feign sight for longer.

He tried to stall, with half-hearted responses and trying to direct the American's attention to more pressing matters, trying to look for (ha ha) a way to escape without discovery, though he is certain that America had already seen his dull pupils, clouded over with the milky-grey of blindness.

Then, it, somewhat inevitably, came.  
"How many fingers… am I holding up?" The silence stretched, England, unable to see his brother's expression, couldn't bare the aching tone in his voice as he tried to coax the answer he wanted out of England. The former colony wanted a number, or an angry rant from the older Nation, not the agonising silence, before a look of pained resignation crossed England's face. He hated to break the terrible silence, but he couldn't bare the empty… nothing that accompanied it due to his lack of visual input.

"I'm sorry America. I can… no longer see."


End file.
